


Seven nights he comes

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Silmarillion Prompts [38]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ghosts, M/M, Masturbation, Referenced Beleg/Turin, Turin is gloomy but a dead Elf in his room can only mean funtimes ahead, Wanking in front of a ghost as some sort of therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 10:40:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7505074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Túrin never knew Finrod when the king was alive, so it's a little funny that Finrod keeps...visiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven nights he comes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/gifts).



> 0\. I can never resist a prompt like 'Finrod sexily haunts Turin' and Sath never disappoints.

Finrod Felagund had been a fair Elf in life.

Túrin was already aware of the former king of Nargothrond’s looks, since the current king of Nargothrond seemed obsessed with commissioning elaborate tapestries that depicted his noble family. And invariably Finarfin’s eldest son would be in the forefront of the tow-headed ranks, standing right by the light source and monopolizing the focal point with his enigmatic smile and gems at his long throat.

Túrin checked.

Fair, yes, probably just as fair as the tapestries claimed. No gems though.

Perhaps they didn’t transfer, he thought moodily. What would Melian say? _The corporeal weight of possessions is as nothing to the Fëa…_ But, Túrin decided, that did not compute, because the figure standing before him was clothed. Rather insufficiently, to be sure, but apparently some Fëar still hung onto corporeal fragments like loincloths and artfully torn tunics.

“I did not bring the Nauglamír with me on my quest,” said the ghost of Finrod Felagund, clearly trying to help him along. “You see me as I was arrayed at the time of my death.”

His voice was soft but sonorous, sweeping through the room as if it was trying to investigate every crack and mouse hole to see how his kingdom was being maintained in his absence. Túrin wondered what he’d think about the bottles under the bed, but then decided he didn’t care what some wispy dead Elf King thought of him, anyway.

“No wonder you didn’t do very well against the wolves,” said Túrin, eying the scraps of clothing that clung inadequately to Finrod’s slender, spectral body. “I would have worn armor, myself.”

“Your candor is refreshing,” said Finrod’s ghost, smiling. “I have always enjoyed those who have no fear of being labeled tasteless for overly blunt comments. Some would call it rude, but I call it – ”

“Rude,” said Túrin. “It’s rudeness, I was being rude.”

“Refreshing,” said Finrod softly, and came closer.

Túrin glanced down to see that Finrod’s bare feet were not actually touching the ground but hovering a couple inches above it, a fact which explained his unnatural height.

“You’re taller than your pictures,” said Túrin. “But also, you’re cheating.”

“Goodness,” said Finrod, “Now you _are_ being rude.”

“Well,” said Túrin, folding his arms. “ _You’re_ not the dead Elf I wanted.”

 

* * *

 

Finrod returned the next night. This time Túrin was sitting on the edge of his bed, drinking some of Orodreth’s wine without much interest and contemplating whether he might have an ingrown toe hair.

“Good evening,” said Finrod’s ghost, courteously.

Túrin grunted and continued to examine his toe knuckle.

Finrod crossed the room with a whisper of shifting air, and Túrin shivered involuntarily.  Finrod sat on the bed beside him, and Túrin glanced over despite himself, noting that he could see the outline of his pillows through the translucent lines of Finrod’s chest. It was a nice chest, he acknowledged to himself, if a bit thin. He had known far better chests in his time, and said so.

“I cannot deny that Beleg was far better muscled than I,” said Finrod, nodding.

“Wh – Did you know him?” Túrin was caught off guard, but he could always talk about Beleg. There was no one left in Nargothrond who had the ability or patience to indulge him in the topic anymore, though this did not stop him.

“I am dead,” said Finrod with a shrug. “I know everything.”

“Is that true?”

“Maybe.”

“He did have a nice chest,” said Túrin, abandoning his toe hair and putting both feet on the floor and his hands on his thighs. “And good muscles in his shoulders and arms, and his back… You’d have to, to pull Belthronding.”

“It must have been nice,” said Finrod quietly, his opaque eyes fixed on Túrin’s face. “That for all you grew taller than he, he was still powerful enough to lift you against the wall when the need arose.”

Túrin flushed and glowered and despite himself, grew half hard in memory. “Do you actually know everything,” he growled, “or are you just guessing? Or reading my mind, like your mad brother?”

“I am talented at all three,” said Finrod, and if he had been alive his body would have been pressed to Túrin’s side now, warm from shoulder to hip. Instead it was like he had brushed up against a cold and trailing vine, and Túrin shivered. “Tell me more about Beleg.”

 _I thought you knew everything,_ Túrin wanted to say snidely, but instead he found himself opening his mouth and letting the words spill out like food from an overfull mouth. He babbled on, an overeager glutton too relieved to empty himself to be embarrassed by the mess he was making, and Finrod watched with gentle compassion and no words at all.

Túrin described the loving focus with which Beleg would polish Belthronding; the way his fingers were strong enough to haul back against that mighty draw or to pin Túrin’s wrists above his head, but nimble enough to coil delicate packets of bowstring, to make tiny, perfect stitches in torn jerkins, and to touch Túrin’s lips so softly that Túrin would have to open his eyes to know they were there.

At some point Túrin realized his cheeks were wet, and Finrod put out ghostly fingers to his tears. They felt cool against Túrin’s hot skin, and Túrin closed his eyes in gratitude.

He spoke until his voice was hoarse, about Beleg’s patience and humor; about Beleg’s gentleness with animals and young children and his intolerance of bullies; of his talent for wrestling and his secret repertoire of curses, curses that he would breathe out like prayers when Túrin was above him, riding his hips.

In time, Túrin’s cock was in his hand, his breeches pushed down messily around his hips, and his breathing was too harsh to keep talking. He dropped back on his elbows, fist still clenched tight around his arousal, and Finrod leaned forward over him, his breath cool against Túrin’s heaving throat.

“He must have loved you,” whispered Finrod. “And with love, there are no regrets.”

Túrin gave a rasping sob at this obvious lie, and came.

Later, he drew his finger through the seed on his stomach, examining the mess in the low light, and thought that it looked remarkably similar to Finrod’s ghostly flesh.

“Rude,” murmured Finrod, and pressed cold lips to Túrin’s shoulder.

 

* * *

 

 

“Why haunt me?” demanded Túrin, the third night. “You didn’t even know me. Why not haunt your brother, he certainly talks about you enough.”

Finrod smiled sorrowfully, but did not reply.

“Why did I get _this_ ghost, of all ghosts?” said Túrin, more loudly. “Do you know how many ghosts I would prefer over you?”

“Yes,” said Finrod.

“So _why_?” Túrin kicked over a chair.

“I always liked this room,” said Finrod, and drifted over to the windowsill to stare out at the river.

 

* * *

 

The fourth night, Finrod came (and so did Túrin) but they did not speak.

 

* * *

 

The fifth, Finrod told a long parable about flowers and Túrin fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

The sixth night, Túrin was already naked on his bed, but waited for Finrod’s appearance to begin touching himself.

Finrod watched and ran insubstantial fingers through Túrin’s hair and said nothing.

 

* * *

 

The seventh night, Túrin reached out to touch the bite marks at Finrod’s throat and the gouges on his hands and the shadow bruises on his face, but his hands went right through the white flesh. Finrod looked sadly at him and dropped kisses like cold minnows to his fingers.

“You weren’t my first choice,” said Túrin, winding himself up in the blankets as Finrod watched from the end of his bed. “But you can stay.”

 

* * *

 

Finrod did not return.

Túrin told himself he did not care.

As had turned into habit, he brought himself off with a tight fist and whispered memories before he slept, and when he closed his eyes, he dreamt both of Beleg’s strong hands and of kisses from long dead lips.

Perhaps, he thought, there were worse to sleep with than the dead.


End file.
